


Late Night Interview

by Monsterunderkilt



Series: The Manse [17]
Category: Actor RPF, Celebrities - Fandom, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fanfic - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26886982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt
Summary: Stephen makes a dramatic return to the Manse and pursues Sir Ken
Series: The Manse [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1209447
Kudos: 1





	Late Night Interview

This evening, around sunset, I stand on the portico balcony, surveying the Amazonian jungle that is my front garden. I keep it dense and lush so nothing can be seen from the entrance down the long driveway—not that it makes a difference because we all know the Manse floats in the sky. The air up here is mildly moist, the trees are tired lungs, the slight breeze a mix of faraway smoke and wet humus warming the understory. The peace is broken by a wheel screech and an engine revving. I see a glint of a windshield through the branches just before a black car squeals underneath the portico to the grand main entrance of the house.

“Oh shit,” I hiss as I pivot and run inside, hoping to meet the driver before he reaches the mezzanine. He’s already leaping, two steps at a time, up the foyer stairway as I call out “STEPHEN! WAIT!”

His eyes are crazed, wide enough to swallow me whole. “Where is he‽ Tell me, Madam, or so help me God-”

“Stephen!” I say, grabbing him by the shoulders and anchoring him in front of me with all my might. “I will not have an ounce of ire in this household, I cannot stand it right now. Please leave Sir Ken be.”

Stephen takes a few breaths, then shakes his head and takes me into a bear hug. “Sorry, sorry, Madam, I didn’t mean to… I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Stephen,” I mumble against his chest.

He takes my face into his hands and gives me a sudden soft and tender kiss that lasts just long enough to puff me up and melt me, like a marshmallow in a microwave. He pulls away, watches me smile at him, then makes his escape, heading straight for the master bedroom.

It takes me a second to recover, but then I’m after him. He disappears behind the bedroom doors and locks them behind him. I hit the door once with my fist and curse. “Stephen! Behave! Please!” I pull my phone out of my back pocket and speed dial Ken. He picks up in silence. “Ken, Stephen’s locked me out. Remind him that I’ll respectfully murder him if he touches you. Ken?”

“Yes, Madam. He’s here.”

“Stephen!” I yell through the door. “Stand down!”

The phone clicks. “Shite!” I cup my hands against the door and try to listen closely. I only hear muffled voices. No projectiles, no yelling. It’s eerily quiet. Which is a good sign… I think.

The phone rings, scaring me out of my wits. “Kenny? Are you alright?”

“Madam, it’s fine!” Stephen says. “We’re fine. Just… go downstairs for an hour and we’ll call you.”

“What on earth are you doing‽”

Click.

“Double shite!” I curse again, slamming the door with my palm, then walk down the hall to head downstairs, my hand still stinging.

I sulk into the living room, where I find Tilda on the couch, the most casual creature on earth, flipping through a copy of Harper’s. Without looking up, she says “An old cock came home to roost?”

I roll my eyes and flop into the armchair across from her, limp as lasagna. “They just better not hit each other in the face. I like their faces.”

Tilda smiles. “Old bulls are the worst. They think they have to prove they’re half their age.”

“Ughhh I wish they’d save their energy for better things, like being their usual lovely selves. This caveman trash does not impress me.”

“Perhaps they’re just drawing up a visitation settlement. They’re both too bookish to allow themselves to become Neanderthals over a woman.”

I sigh, crossing my arms over my chest. “I sure hope you’re right.”

*******

A hour later, while Tilda and I are playing Jenga in the kitchen, Stephen calls me. “Is he breathing?” I ask.

“I’m sending you a video link. You’re welcome.”

Click.

Tilda leans back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head. “So what’s the result?”

I tap the link he texts me and a YouTube video starts.

“Good evening, folks, welcome to the Manse Show with me, Stephen.”

“What is it?” Tilda asks, leaning forward as I scoot next to her so we can both view the screen on my phone. It’s filmed inside my office, where Stephen is sitting behind the desk, Late Show style, smiling idiotically.

“Please join me in welcoming my special guest, a hero of mine, Sir Kenneth Branagh!”

Ken walks into frame and sits on the sofa next to the desk, happy as a crab in a tide pool. “Good e’en, Sir Stephen! So kind of you to invite me here today.”

“You have no idea how thrilled I am that you’re finally within Madam Cait’s grasp, Sir Ken. Should I call you Sir?”

“Ken, Stephen. You can call me Ken.”

“Ken, Sir, I could listen to you tell stories about all your work all day long, but please feel free to spill all the tea about Dame Judi Dench whenever convenient for you...”

Tilda and I exchange looks, then continue to watch a perfectly innocent and endearingly fawning interview for the next half hour.

*******

After we all hug and laugh at what went down on the video, we have dinner and wine and eventually Stephen tries to drunkenly interview Tilda, but they both pass out on the living room sofa, so Ken and I sneak back upstairs.

We take our turns in the shower and brush our teeth and all the rest, then climb into bed.

“Well, goodnight!” Ken says with a squiffy smile as he kisses my cheek and reaches to turn off his bedside lamp.

“Wait,” I say, touching his chest. He turns and blinks at me, truly exhausted. I lean closer.“Ken… I feel I must point this out to you… but you were more visibly happy tonight than I’ve ever seen you. Why is that? Have I done something wrong? Am I missing something?”

Ken takes my hand in his and fiddles with the thin gold ring on my middle finger. He stares into my palm, as if the answer to the question of life, existence and everything were inked there. “Sweetheart…I’ve been happy as ever, really.You’ve been lovely and kind and fun and sexy and everything.”

I blush, but I shake my head. “But...”

His sigh is long and enervating.“Everyone around here just… seems to make a sport out of ribbing me. I’m no stranger to piss-takes, but… Stephen is the only one who hasn’t made a single jab.”

I watch him gently rub my fingernails one by one until he finally looks back up at me. I find I can’t quite read what’s folded in the furrow of his brow.

“As you’re well aware, I’ll be 60 in two months. I suppose that big round number is hanging over me a bit. I feel fine. I feel excited about life and projects and generally positive despite all the bollocks that’s going on in the world, but… you know... time still marches on.” He rubs his face with one hand and yawns. “How long could I possibly hold your interest, being such an old dog?”

“Oh Ken,” I say, rubbing his arm. “Kenny Branny... barring you ending up in some hashtag MeToo headline I will love you always, don’t worry. I’ve been in love with dead guys, so don’t think turning into a senior citizen dulls the fangirling.”

He laughs through a yawn, which makes me yawn as well. “Which dead guys?” he asks.

“Cary Grant. Douglas Fairbanks—Senior and Junior. Peter O’Toole and Omar Sharif. Gregory Peck.”

He smiles at me sweetly. “They’ve definitely got some years on me.”

I kiss his cheek, then add another where his lips ought to be. “I just thought you were playing along with the whole neurotic curmudgeon act, because it’s what we do here—just fool around. I didn’t know all this pointed banter made you so melancholy.”

“I’m an actor. My ego is enormous but it can still be bruised.”

I pull him into a hug, clasping his head to my chest and carding my fingers through his fluffy blond hair. “You know deep down everyone is only poking fun at you because they’re nervous that one of England’s national treasures is sleeping with the Madam. They adore you, and they are utterly, devastatingly intimidated because you are utterly, devastatingly brilliant.”

He hugs my middle and kisses my collarbone. “I love you,” he says through a yawn.

I close my eyes and kiss his hair. “I love you too. Now let’s hit the road to dreamland already.”


End file.
